tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-273645442009-07-07T20:20:50.777+02:00né arte né parte...in fondo la vita è una forma d'arte in movimento...gianlucahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02145308885701638374noreply@blogger.comBlogger354125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27364544.post-89719864683529761382009-07-07T20:04:00.002+02:002009-07-07T20:20:50.786+02:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/SlOONqt-3zI/AAAAAAAAARk/EdIyGwY_p7Q/s1600-h/kubrick3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 310px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/SlOONqt-3zI/AAAAAAAAARk/EdIyGwY_p7Q/s320/kubrick3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355780747330248498" border="0" /></a>Title: Rubik sky<br /><br />Ancora suoni. Troppa fame, non ci devo pensare. Ancora parole. Me le potrei quasi mangiare.<br />Troppi rumori. Ascolto la pancia che si lamenta.<br /><br />Il silenzio riempie la testa, un pezzo di pane lo stomaco.<br />Alzo il volume, sono pronto.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/27364544-8971986468352976138?l=nearteneparte.blogspot.com'/></div>gianlucahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02145308885701638374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27364544.post-28858147415180837602009-06-16T22:19:00.002+02:002009-06-16T23:03:19.433+02:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/SjgIaVYCE9I/AAAAAAAAARc/KFHvy_TTpyI/s1600-h/where_are_you.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/SjgIaVYCE9I/AAAAAAAAARc/KFHvy_TTpyI/s320/where_are_you.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348033806010029010" border="0" /></a>Title: Where are you?<br /><br />è un'opera d'arte, lo so. Ma l'emozione che ne ricavo va oltre. Mi regala la possibilità di evadere, di uscire. Incredibile. Quando intravedo la genialità la sensazione è quella di appagamento.<br /><br />Non sento niente di fronte alle ninfee di Monet, mi spiace, mi lascio sedurre dalla poetica malinconica di Gonzales-Torres.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/27364544-2885814741518083760?l=nearteneparte.blogspot.com'/></div>gianlucahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02145308885701638374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27364544.post-22273903841731522562009-05-14T20:06:00.005+02:002009-05-14T21:49:15.535+02:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/Sgx0hFZiJvI/AAAAAAAAARU/fQruFFET4gk/s1600-h/black.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/Sgx0hFZiJvI/AAAAAAAAARU/fQruFFET4gk/s320/black.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335767770260973298" border="0" /></a>Title: Black<br /><br />E così questa è la vita? Ed è tutto quello che abbiamo, in definitiva.<br />Non sembra vero. Non siamo pronti a certe notizie e non saremo pronti mai.<br />Ci rimane la speranza, vogliamo credere nel domani.<br />Ma certi disegni non li possiamo intuire. Oggi non ci vogliamo nemmeno provare.<br />Ci sono momenti in cui l'assoluto e il relativo sfuocano insieme, si sovrappongono e in definitiva perdono valore.<br />Forse perde valore anche il senso.<br /><br />Resta uno sguardo, le parole, un sorriso e tanti istanti.<br />Messi in fila fanno una vita.<br /><br />Non ti dimenticheremo mai.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/27364544-2227390384173152256?l=nearteneparte.blogspot.com'/></div>gianlucahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02145308885701638374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27364544.post-83220217942928621972009-05-03T17:37:00.003+02:002009-05-03T17:54:19.082+02:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/Sf26WzJpYMI/AAAAAAAAARM/nKGZoZFYCUM/s1600-h/acloudyday_thesun_theskyoverthewindow_akiss.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/Sf26WzJpYMI/AAAAAAAAARM/nKGZoZFYCUM/s320/acloudyday_thesun_theskyoverthewindow_akiss.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331622434727092418" border="0" /></a>Title: A cloudy day, the sky outside the window, the sun and a kiss.<br /><br />Lui la guardò chiedendole un sorriso. Non glielo chiese a parole, un sorriso non si può estorcere. Lo cercò con lo sguardo. Ne aveva bisogno.<br /><br />Cercava un sorriso per sentirsi tranquillo, quasi una carezza, di quelle materne che danno conforto. Un sorriso per rasserenarlo e per sciogliere quel nodo allo stomaco.<br /><br />Non si sorride a comando, lo sapeva. Ma quell'irrazionale bisogno non seguiva la grammatica della logica e della comprensione. E non accettava nè compromessi nè scuse.<br /><br />Si trovò a guardare fuori dalla finestra.<br />Il cielo con qualche nuvola sopra i tetti delle case, quel leggero riflesso sulla finestra e il sole tiepido, ancora presente, anche se defilato.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/27364544-8322021794292862197?l=nearteneparte.blogspot.com'/></div>gianlucahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02145308885701638374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27364544.post-86526189923183949012009-05-01T15:23:00.002+02:002009-05-01T15:35:44.169+02:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/Sfr4FcNZJgI/AAAAAAAAARE/5cHoC78eFHA/s1600-h/love.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/Sfr4FcNZJgI/AAAAAAAAARE/5cHoC78eFHA/s320/love.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330845881301804546" border="0" /></a>Title: Losing my mind.<br /><br />Lei lo guardò pensando che il suo futuro prendeva la rincorsa proprio da quei giorni.<br />A volte scorciatoie e deviazioni non sono distinguibili.<br /><br />Pensò che a volte una porta chiusa può comunque essere aperta senza essere sfondata. A volte abbiamo le chiavi ma non mettiamo le mani in tasca per trovarle.<br /><br />Pensò che lui non avrebbe avuto problemi a trovare le chiavi. Non si sarebbe fatto prendere dal panico.<br /><br />"Bravo" pensò, "hai tutta la mia più sincera ammirazione. Io al posto tuo non ci riuscirei".<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/27364544-8652618992318394901?l=nearteneparte.blogspot.com'/></div>gianlucahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02145308885701638374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27364544.post-11087116943566358622009-04-10T20:56:00.002+02:002009-04-10T21:39:51.296+02:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/Sd-eMh81DiI/AAAAAAAAAQ8/AKA9DR6p4bA/s1600-h/last_train_home..jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/Sd-eMh81DiI/AAAAAAAAAQ8/AKA9DR6p4bA/s320/last_train_home..jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323147222684339746" border="0" /></a>Title: Out of time.<br /><br />La smetto con le parole e ricomincio con le immagini.<br />Anzi, ora esco.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/27364544-1108711694356635862?l=nearteneparte.blogspot.com'/></div>gianlucahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02145308885701638374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27364544.post-26883760528806740992009-04-07T19:48:00.002+02:002009-04-07T21:17:46.955+02:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/SduSKvBWybI/AAAAAAAAAQ0/rbMAKPR7TaA/s1600-h/Penelope3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 279px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/SduSKvBWybI/AAAAAAAAAQ0/rbMAKPR7TaA/s320/Penelope3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322008097786874290" border="0" /></a>Title: Penelope. Please, don't think about Ulysses.<br /><br />L'arpeggio di chitarra, a seguire il piano. Alzo il volume, voglio essere completamente avvolto dalla musica. Non voglio sentire nient'altro. Non ci sono parole, solo melodia.<br /><br />Resto così, fermo e immobile, ad aspettare le note che già conosco, che già desidero.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/27364544-2688376052880674099?l=nearteneparte.blogspot.com'/></div>gianlucahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02145308885701638374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27364544.post-5066112760075696482009-04-06T21:15:00.002+02:002009-04-06T21:34:41.954+02:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/SdpXeccWhQI/AAAAAAAAAQs/nYJ__mmlqrE/s1600-h/hearthdef.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 265px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/SdpXeccWhQI/AAAAAAAAAQs/nYJ__mmlqrE/s320/hearthdef.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321662090234463490" border="0" /></a>Title: Italy, tonight. 3.30 A.M.<br /><br />Non ci sono pensieri stasera.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/27364544-506611276007569648?l=nearteneparte.blogspot.com'/></div>gianlucahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02145308885701638374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27364544.post-66249762193180978182009-04-05T16:36:00.002+02:002009-04-05T16:45:56.695+02:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/SdjCBe6YOHI/AAAAAAAAAQk/asqgjWOdvm8/s1600-h/donotcrosstheline1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 184px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/SdjCBe6YOHI/AAAAAAAAAQk/asqgjWOdvm8/s320/donotcrosstheline1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321216290471819378" border="0" /></a><br />Title: A very long night, full of fun and dancing.<br /><br />Da lontano l'insieme dei dettagli era sfuocato ma affascinante.<br />Da vicino ogni singolo particolare sembrava privo di significato. Quasi evanescente.<br /><br />Desiderava togliere gli occhiali alla fantasia, per arricchire e completare l'insieme, interpretando quello che non andava, spostandosi qualche passo indietro.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/27364544-6624976219318097818?l=nearteneparte.blogspot.com'/></div>gianlucahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02145308885701638374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27364544.post-41030811997869618062009-03-29T13:55:00.003+02:002009-03-29T14:12:27.909+02:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/Sc9h7GmYzyI/AAAAAAAAAQc/2yTjALgmKeM/s1600-h/sister1pesce.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/Sc9h7GmYzyI/AAAAAAAAAQc/2yTjALgmKeM/s320/sister1pesce.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318577352959643426" border="0" /></a><br />Title: Ulysses called the sirens by name. Probably he had known them for a long time.<br /><br />Ulisse chiamò le sirene per nome, una volta legato all'albero maestro. Le conosceva molto bene e da diverso tempo.<br />Simulò la pazzia per non destare ulteriori sospetti. Per Dio, stava comunque tornando a casa.<br /><br />In definitiva fu tutta una sceneggiata.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/27364544-4103081199786961806?l=nearteneparte.blogspot.com'/></div>gianlucahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02145308885701638374noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27364544.post-75881735074648530012009-02-23T19:43:00.002+01:002009-02-23T21:17:59.330+01:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/SaLvDWQPjMI/AAAAAAAAAQM/GG6DvZ3bjn0/s1600-h/video_killed_the_radio_star.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 264px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/SaLvDWQPjMI/AAAAAAAAAQM/GG6DvZ3bjn0/s320/video_killed_the_radio_star.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306066151788219586" border="0" /></a>Title: Video killed the radio star.<br /><br />Da adolescente in uno slancio dissacrante e anti iconoclastico decise che avrebbe fatto piazza pulita di tutte le icone che avrebbe trovato dinanzi a sé.<br /><br />Qualche anno dopo, passato il furore giovanile, si limitava a cestinare quelle inutilizzate sul desktop del suo pc.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/27364544-7588173507464853001?l=nearteneparte.blogspot.com'/></div>gianlucahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02145308885701638374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27364544.post-46616950847179300462009-02-18T21:52:00.002+01:002009-02-18T22:00:50.122+01:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/SZx1HiB0GrI/AAAAAAAAAP4/mRyCldKjyg4/s1600-h/topolino8.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/SZx1HiB0GrI/AAAAAAAAAP4/mRyCldKjyg4/s320/topolino8.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304243233389550258" border="0" /></a>Title: I can explain everything.<br /><br />Nessuna interferenza.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/27364544-4661695084717930046?l=nearteneparte.blogspot.com'/></div>gianlucahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02145308885701638374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27364544.post-57585505415105395432009-02-08T17:58:00.002+01:002009-02-08T18:07:23.383+01:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/SY8QFB6erRI/AAAAAAAAAPw/KKDeKuYQp1k/s1600-h/wait2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/SY8QFB6erRI/AAAAAAAAAPw/KKDeKuYQp1k/s320/wait2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300472965037468946" border="0" /></a>Title: Just in case.<br /><br />Si fermò un secondo soltanto. Poi sorrise notando che il tempo era impaziente.<br />Guardò l'orologio. Non aveva alcuna intenzione d'attendere ancora.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/27364544-5758550541510539543?l=nearteneparte.blogspot.com'/></div>gianlucahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02145308885701638374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27364544.post-1306565741397595042009-01-27T21:40:00.002+01:002009-01-27T21:54:05.733+01:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/SX9xxU7EynI/AAAAAAAAAPo/OUh3VwRpy9Q/s1600-h/te.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 302px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/SX9xxU7EynI/AAAAAAAAAPo/OUh3VwRpy9Q/s320/te.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296076779055008370" border="0" /></a>Title: A picture of the glass of tea I had in my dream last night.<br /><br />La scorsa notte ho scattato una fotografia del bicchiere di te che stavo sorseggiando in sogno. Non ricordo bene il perchè ho deciso di scattare tale foto.<br />Ricordo invece abbastanza nitidamente che non trovavo la macchina fotografica digitale.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/27364544-130656574139759504?l=nearteneparte.blogspot.com'/></div>gianlucahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02145308885701638374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27364544.post-75672831980497715792009-01-21T19:52:00.002+01:002009-01-21T20:25:22.099+01:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/SXdvN0Vu3CI/AAAAAAAAAPg/B3wr6aqO3mw/s1600-h/thank_you_god1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 302px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/SXdvN0Vu3CI/AAAAAAAAAPg/B3wr6aqO3mw/s320/thank_you_god1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293822170176085026" border="0" /></a>Title: Please, find new meanings in your request. He thought hard, but he didn't find new hidden meanings.<br /><br />Era un artista complesso, molto timido tra l'altro. Non gli piaceva mettersi in mostra.<br />Quanto mi divertiva questa contrapposizione.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/27364544-7567283198049771579?l=nearteneparte.blogspot.com'/></div>gianlucahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02145308885701638374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27364544.post-2625410365668010332009-01-12T21:24:00.002+01:002009-01-12T21:57:37.824+01:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/SWunDidLxiI/AAAAAAAAAPY/-JCJQfvDWJ8/s1600-h/ready_for_the_party3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 302px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/SWunDidLxiI/AAAAAAAAAPY/-JCJQfvDWJ8/s320/ready_for_the_party3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5290505866507437602" border="0" /></a>Title: Are you ready for the party?<br /><br />Impronte di passi scivolati via sotto altri passi. Qualche giorno fa un pò di neve, quel che resta ai margini della strada. Senza tempo, sotto un cielo instabile, qui tutto cade incantevole.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/27364544-262541036566801033?l=nearteneparte.blogspot.com'/></div>gianlucahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02145308885701638374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27364544.post-53533364344254827762009-01-11T15:25:00.002+01:002009-01-11T15:43:20.355+01:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/SWoBiOzo1UI/AAAAAAAAAPQ/y6c0247-u1I/s1600-h/syd_in_a_complicatd_state_of_mind.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 302px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/SWoBiOzo1UI/AAAAAAAAAPQ/y6c0247-u1I/s320/syd_in_a_complicatd_state_of_mind.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5290042399901930818" border="0" /></a>Title: Our patients have a complicated state of mind.<br /><br />Belli i tuoi sogni. Mi piacciono davvero un sacco.<br />I miei? No, io no.. di notte dormo. Mi piacerebbe però.<br />Magari una notte che ho tempo ci provo.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/27364544-5353336434425482776?l=nearteneparte.blogspot.com'/></div>gianlucahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02145308885701638374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27364544.post-57898847923277552009-01-10T17:45:00.002+01:002009-01-10T17:54:09.974+01:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/SWjQ4qoWLHI/AAAAAAAAAPI/c_77OexDDIo/s1600-h/world_what_is_happened1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 302px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/SWjQ4qoWLHI/AAAAAAAAAPI/c_77OexDDIo/s320/world_what_is_happened1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5289707434281413746" border="0" /></a><br />Title: World, what is happened?<br /><br />A pelle, forse sto diventando più superficiale.<br />Meglio dormire. Dicono faccia bene.<br /><br />Alla pelle.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/27364544-5789884792327755?l=nearteneparte.blogspot.com'/></div>gianlucahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02145308885701638374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27364544.post-57045877553570893072008-12-26T15:25:00.004+01:002008-12-26T15:54:56.280+01:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/SVTrSzbPUEI/AAAAAAAAAPA/qtq-iJSXhBs/s1600-h/italian_style1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 302px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/SVTrSzbPUEI/AAAAAAAAAPA/qtq-iJSXhBs/s320/italian_style1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5284106971087065154" border="0" /></a>Title: Italian Style. Coffee break.<br /><br />Me ne stavo seduto ad ascoltare. Parlavano di politica, economia, a un certo punto di giustizia, almeno mi pareva. Chiacchere da bar.<br /><br />A un certo punto se ne saltò fuori il più vecchio del gruppo. "Ma davvero pensi che sia tutto così semplice?" si rivolse a quello più giovane, che stava spiegando le proprie idee a riguardo.<br /><br />"La tua risolutezza sembra molto quella di quel contadino che una volta presa la talpa che da tempo gli stava rovinando il campo, pensò bene di punirla in modo esemplare, decidendo di seppellirla viva."<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/27364544-5704587755357089307?l=nearteneparte.blogspot.com'/></div>gianlucahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02145308885701638374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27364544.post-15015834752217689342008-12-07T16:13:00.002+01:002008-12-07T16:31:58.550+01:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/STvoYONO36I/AAAAAAAAAOo/9whL7saggPU/s1600-h/sky1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 302px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/STvoYONO36I/AAAAAAAAAOo/9whL7saggPU/s320/sky1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5277066891222769570" border="0" /></a>Title: At dusk.<br /><br />Scambio leggero di opinioni senza apparente sforzo cognitivo.<br />Punti di vista abbastanza vicini, nessuna inutile perdita di tempo per cercare perifrasi.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/27364544-1501583475221768934?l=nearteneparte.blogspot.com'/></div>gianlucahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02145308885701638374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27364544.post-71218807623609876642008-11-30T16:28:00.002+01:002008-11-30T16:33:34.259+01:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/STKxa9dottI/AAAAAAAAAOg/fS1dqQfksUA/s1600-h/elettrosmog1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 302px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/STKxa9dottI/AAAAAAAAAOg/fS1dqQfksUA/s320/elettrosmog1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274473190337853138" border="0" /></a>Title: Electrosmog<br /><br />Tempi moderni. Si girò verso di lei e le disse: "Sii donna, difendimi!"<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/27364544-7121880762360987664?l=nearteneparte.blogspot.com'/></div>gianlucahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02145308885701638374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27364544.post-75402951928459141982008-11-09T15:03:00.003+01:002008-11-09T15:17:22.798+01:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/SRbt8xgJxUI/AAAAAAAAAOY/5shVE28BMgo/s1600-h/pop_art1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 302px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/SRbt8xgJxUI/AAAAAAAAAOY/5shVE28BMgo/s320/pop_art1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5266658442592503106" border="0" /></a>Title: Pop art without meaning. No news today. Easy dreams.<br /><br />Facili sogni. All'apparenza, facilmente raggiungibili. Li abbiamo sempre considerati tali.<br />Cosa vogliamo adesso?<br /><br />Una camomilla, al limite una ninnananna.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/27364544-7540295192845914198?l=nearteneparte.blogspot.com'/></div>gianlucahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02145308885701638374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27364544.post-86563704169677735192008-11-02T16:14:00.002+01:002008-11-02T17:07:16.119+01:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/SQ3F9U_0f_I/AAAAAAAAAOQ/Bw7xODvVkcM/s1600-h/iconic6.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 302px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/SQ3F9U_0f_I/AAAAAAAAAOQ/Bw7xODvVkcM/s320/iconic6.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264081196865060850" border="0" /></a>Title: Iconic state of mind.<br /><br />Gestire e sfruttare le proprie potenzialità. Penso sia questo che ognuno pensa di fronte allo specchio.<br /><br />Nei momenti di calma.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/27364544-8656370416967773519?l=nearteneparte.blogspot.com'/></div>gianlucahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02145308885701638374noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27364544.post-38912955786207859122008-10-25T15:10:00.002+02:002008-10-25T15:30:00.846+02:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/SQMfSpC7WfI/AAAAAAAAAOI/o_B4JCzaPiQ/s1600-h/Something_inside.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 302px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/SQMfSpC7WfI/AAAAAAAAAOI/o_B4JCzaPiQ/s320/Something_inside.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261083194815109618" border="0" /></a><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span>Title: Long cross.<br /><br />Per non cedere alla noia, per non fare scivolare via i giorni, per non sentirsi incompiuti.<br /><br />Per non volare ad occhi chiusi pensando alle rate, per non rateizzare il tempo, per non essere vittime della mancanza di coraggio.<br /><br />Per non avere paura di affrontare le novità. Per liberare il proprio egocentrismo latente. Per una necessità di restituire parte di quello che si è rubato con gli occhi e con la mente.<br /><br />Per una questione di entropica dimensione legata al futuro e al presente.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/27364544-3891295578620785912?l=nearteneparte.blogspot.com'/></div>gianlucahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02145308885701638374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27364544.post-19784524696249234032008-10-18T14:38:00.003+02:002008-10-18T18:15:26.588+02:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/SPnY6E8Vm5I/AAAAAAAAAN4/lX_QqkcPymo/s1600-h/I_just_dont_know.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HUBz2eVy6y8/SPnY6E8Vm5I/AAAAAAAAAN4/lX_QqkcPymo/s320/I_just_dont_know.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5258472532202593170" border="0" /></a>Title: He just doesn't know what to do with himself.<br /><br />Come una foglia che aspetta in silenzio il sole, come un ramo colto di sorpresa da un giro di vento distratto, come il terreno che aspetta la pioggia guardando fermamente il cielo.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/27364544-1978452469624923403?l=nearteneparte.blogspot.com'/></div>gianlucahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02145308885701638374noreply@blogger.com0